


Lost and Found

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, 🍆💦
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: "Ginny Weasley used to think that virginity was cut and dried. It had always seemed a static concept, a checkmark in a box, something beyond the limitations of human error. But now she's not sure of anything...not anymore."





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out smuttier than I thought. Oops. 
> 
> If you squint, you might consider this a very distant sequel to Noticing. (Which will be updated soon, ok? I promise!)
> 
> For Pregwidge and Beamy.

Ginny Weasley used to think that virginity was cut and dried.

It had always seemed a static concept, a checkmark in a box, something with only two options:  _ _Yes or no__.

It was one of the few things that seemed beyond misinterpretation, a notion above the limitations of human error.

After all, how could it be anything else? It was biological.  _ _Mechanical__. Something primal that humans engaged in as a means to an end.

She'd rolled her eyes at all the girls at Hogwarts who had claimed they'd had  _ _spiritual experiences__  while being shagged. She'd dismissed their claims as ludicrous. Self-serving. Attention-seeking. She was sure that shagging felt good, of course— after some time. After you'd had  _practice_. Still, calling it "spiritual" or "life-changing" was something nothing short of ridiculous.

But Ginny isn't so sure she knows anything. Not anymore.

Because after a few failed attempts, Harry's finally inside her. And honestly, she isn't entirely sure  _ _what__  that makes her. Is she still a virgin? She doesn't think so...but she doesn't  _know _,__ either.

She's certainly not writhing in unbridled passion, not rolling on wave after wave of cresting bliss. She hadn't expected to do any of that, of course. Not the first time. But she  _also_  hadn't expected that she'd be staring at the ceiling and biting her lip and trying not to focus on the near-blinding pain from between her legs.

Because it  _does_ hurt.

Which Ginny admits, if only to herself.

She doesn't say a word, though, not even as Harry pushes himself inside her a bit more quickly than she'd anticipated. She winces, and in doing so realizes she's pleased, for once, that Harry's eyes have remained closed. But then he goes in another inch...ah, fuck, and it  _burns_ , too! An involuntary shudder races through her spine. Is  _burning_  part of it? She feels so stretched and raw and  _bloody uncomfortable_ that she wonders if perhaps they're doing it wrong.

She's not sure how one could find a way to get  _ _that__  wrong. She's also pretty sure he wouldn't fit anywhere else.

But  _ _fuck...__ none of that makes her feel any better.

By now, Harry's stretched so tightly around her and feels so  _ _foreign__ inside her that Ginny feels a sudden, irrational rush of anger. She's not cross with  _ _Harry__ , of course; he's done literally all he can, including making one final, halfhearted protest against doing this in the first place for fear of "hurting her." His speech hadn't been terribly convincing, though, since his erection had been digging into her thigh at the time.

No...she's mostly annoyed that none of her so-called friends have adequately prepared her for this. Not at  _all _.__ She shakes her head against the threadbare fabric of her pillow and vows to have  _ _a word__ with Hermione about her honesty. Or lack thereof.

Still, Ginny just sets her jaw and stares at the ceiling as Harry lets out a wheezy little moan from above her. He's stopped pushing forward, and she figures he's all the way in; by now, though, she feels a bit numb, which she supposes is a blessing.

Despite this, she doesn't dare utter a single complaint _—_  even though  _it hurts_ , even though she reckons she's  _bleeding—_ because she's spent the last three months trying to convince her boyfriend that she's ready for this, and she's not about to ruin all of that hard work by mentioning something that can't be helped in the first place.

Naturally, Harry had gone out of his way to make her as comfortable as possible before they'd attempted this, which makes Ginny feel even worse. As always, he'd insisted on going down on her first. Because that's just the type of person Harry is.

Even if he hadn't drunkenly admitted as much a few weeks ago, she knows how much he prides himself on his ability to make her come. Since May, he's gotten spectacular, actually, to the point where he can bring her off more quickly than she can bring  _herself_ off _ _,__  although that's another one of those things she hasn't admitted quite yet.

As such, Ginny _knows_  that Harry would stop if he knew how badly this hurts...which only means they'd be back to square one, wouldn't they? While Ginny's got no qualms about the rather satisfying things they've achieved thus far with mouths and hands, she's been ready for  _ _ages__. She'd also like a chance to improve their... _skills_...before she returns to Hogwarts, because she quite likes the idea of being welcomed home with sex. She's never experienced that, of course. But the idea seems lovely.

Besides all that, she's actually been ready for _much_ longer than Harry even knows, and at this point, it's harder for her to remember a time when she wasn't ready...for  _all_ of this.

She's probably been ready for so long it would scare him, so she'll keep that part locked away, too. At least until the next time she drinks. Drinking tends to make her rather flirty and honest, and now that she's admitted something like this, she's quite confident that the truth will slip past her lips if she so much as  _sees_ a bottle of Firewhiskey.

She can almost imagine how wide-eyed and thunderstruck Harry would look when presented with the fact that she's  _wanted him_  since she was barely fifteen...

When the pain has finally subsided a bit, she blinks up at the man in question. He's now stilled on top of her, his warm hand wrapped around her hip. His brow is furrowed as he takes deep, even breaths, and if she's seen that look once, she's seen it a thousand times: He's  _concentrating._

 _Oh_.

Ginny swallows, overcome by a sudden wave of something she wasn't expecting. He's pensive,  _determined_ , like it's killing him inside that he can't make this good for her. She can't possibly bring herself to tell him that it's not how this works. Not the first time.

So instead she reaches a hand up and gently traces it down his cheek ( _I'm here. You're fine. _)__ Harry responds with a soft smile, although he doesn't open his eyes.

"Are you ok?" Her voice is a whisper. She's afraid it'll hurt if she speaks any louder, though she knows this is absurd; Harry hasn't even finished yet, and this is  _bound_ to hurt a bit more.

Harry nods, but his fingertips remain on her hip. Even without being told, she knows what he's doing: He's telling her not to move.

Luckily, when it comes to Harry Potter, Ginny's used to playing the long game.

Several moments later, he opens his eyes- and with a single look into their green depths, Ginny realizes she's missed seeing them since he's been inside her.

Because she _loves it_ when he looks at her like that.

His eyes are dark, penetrating,  _smoldering_ , filled with the same intensity he gives her when she's staring up at him from between his legs. And she loves doing that _—_  really, she does _—_  because he always looks at her  _like this_ while she does it.

Harry finally speaks, his tone lower and more graveled than she's ever heard it. "Is...is it ok if I move now?"

She sees his arms shaking, sees the sweat beading his brow, and she  _ _knows__ how difficult it was to ask that question, to seek permission instead of just doing.

And  _ _fuck__ , if that doesn't make her fall in love with him a thousand times over again.

So she decides to help him, as much as she possibly can. With a dexterity she didn't know she had, Ginny arches up and claims his lips with hers, and she reckons that's when Harry's careful control finally snaps. He immediately removes himself, which  _ _does__  provide some temporary relief-- but then he's back in again, an instant later, and she just clings to the hope that she won't tense up too badly.

Harry lets out a low moan into her mouth, and almost on instinct, she wraps her arms around his neck. Ginny soon realizes that even this minor shift must've provided a bit of friction, because in the next moment, he's  _off_ , like he can't possibly hold back. He's just started, but she can tell he won't be able to hold on, not for long.

Harry's never been good at hiding things from her, and his impending orgasms are no exception. He always gets this panting,  _ _desperate__  sort of look, always begins babbling, always acts like she's making the world's  _ _biggest__  sacrifice for simply giving him pleasure. So when he buries his face in her neck and starts sliding in and out of her more and more erratically, she knows he's close.

And it's about when he starts in with the babbling, she reckons, that it finally hits her:  _She's the only one who knows he does this._

It's a realization that squeezes the air from her lungs, but one she really should've figured out sooner.

She's the only one who knows that Harry feels  _ _lonely__  when he comes by himself. She's the only one who knows that he gently laces his fingers through her hair while her mouth is wrapped around his cock, that he always whispers about how  _beautiful_  and  _perfect_ she is right before she feels him tighten with release. She's the only one who knows that he's a tit man-- but she's also the only one who knows he'd deny this until his dying day.

The impact of it all hits her all at once: After years of pining and wanting and pleading and praying,  _she's his._

_Yes._

_She's_  his. She's  _his_.  _She's his._

And as Harry starts thrusting even harder, as his eyes slam shut, as he starts making these delicious, primal sounds from deep in his throat, the truth pounds away in her chest with a sense of finality, one so powerful she can't describe it in words. Tears start at the corners of her eyes, but they're not tears of sadness or pain. No...they're tears of something  _permanent_ , of a chapter that's closing and opening at the same time. She's  _complete_ , awash in being blissfully lost, and more thrilled than she can describe that  _Harry_  was the one to do this.

Because she loves him.

She really,  _really_  loves him.

She knows it now as much as she knew it at Hogwarts. It's one of those inexorable truths, something she can't separate from who she is: The two of them simply  _are._

_And they always will be._

She doesn't voice that bit, but it's almost like a whisper carried on the wind, something she knows is true, something that will uplift her even in her darkest days.

"I'm yours," she murmurs as he starts to shudder in earnest. " _Only_ yours."

Harry cracks open his eyes for a split second, and she can see he's hungry,  _desperate_  for release. But he's waiting. Teetering on a painful edge. And finally,  _finally_  she understands.

"It's ok," she whispers against his lips. "Let go, Harry."

And with that, he  _ _does__.

He stills, and though his eyes are deep and dark and penetrating, his gaze never dares to waver from hers, not even as he releases a deep, rumbling moan...not even as she feels him, knows he's coming with more intensity than she's ever felt. And  _ _fuck__ , that's hot...the way he's shooting and releasing, the way she can  _feel_ it, and Ginny knows that whenever he's up for round two, she'll be right there with him.

He doesn't stop staring, though, until his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses against her, his body utterly spent. Ginny leans up and kisses him on the cheek, pleased to find that pride has replaced pain.  _She'd_ been the one to do this _ _.__   _She'd_ been the one who'd brought him so far over the edge that he can barely move.

She softly traces a fingertip across his forehead and his lips twitch with a hint of a smile. "I love you," she whispers, her voice scarcely able to contain the love pounding through her veins. "I  _love_ you."

And as Harry blinks open heavy-lidded, lovesick eyes and returns the words, Ginny accepts _—_  right then and there _—_  that virginity isn't something she's lost...

It's something she's  _outgrown _.__


	2. Found

Harry's propped on his elbow as he grits his jaw in concentration.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

For over a year, he's spent every nearly waking moment thinking about doing this— about finally,  _finally_  being inside her, about being joined as closely as two people can.

But now? He  _can't_ think about any of that.

Not in detail, at least.

The  _last_ thing he wants, actually, is to accept that he's surrounded by her tight warmth, a place he's been desperate to feel since he’d first explored it during those easy sunlit days of living someone else's life. He can't even bear to take a peek at her heavy-lidded eyes, to observe the flush that's surely spreading from her freckled chest to her neck.

Because if he spends too long thinking about  _any_  of that, he's going to come, right on the spot. If he allows his mind to travel much, he's certain he'll finish in less time than it took him to mutter the contraceptive charm in the first place.

As such, Harry's so  _overwhelmed_ , so distressed, that he has a brief, delirious moment trapped between fantasy and reality, living in some type of limbo of pain and pleasure. And during this moment, he allows his mind to wander, perhaps out of a subconscious attempt to prevent things from escalating too quickly.

For some reason, he sees himself _—_   _ _Non__ -Virgin Harry _—_ approaching his former, virginal self (the poor sod who'd still existed a whopping five minutes ago) and offering him a pat on the shoulder or a kind, reassuring nod. "Trust me, mate," perhaps he'd say to that younger, stupider bloke. "It's  _worth_  dying for, this."

Harry knows it's a sad state of affairs when a fictional interview (with himself) is easier to think about than the fact that  _he's actually shagging Ginny Weasley in her bed._

 _Annnd shit.._.before he's even realized it, he's pushed himself in just a bit more while he was thinking about that, and between the two of those things, he just doesn't see  _how_ he's going to keep it together.

He takes deep, shuddering breaths, scarcely aware of the hand he's placed on Ginny's hip. And he starts to think about Quidditch.

 _Blagging. Haversacking. Cobbing. Snitchkip. Blagging. Haversacking. Cobbing. Snitchkip_.

Naturally, it doesn't help anything that he'd made her come first. He's still able to see what she'd looked like as she'd contracted and released around his fingers and mouth, her toes curling, her fists clenched at her sides. Making Ginny come is  _erotic_ , full stop, even if she's got it in her head that he only does it out of some twisted sense of obligation, like he's trying to balance the scales.

That’s true _—_  to an extent _—_  but for some reason, Harry's never been able to convince her that it turns  _him_ on, too. He’d really thought that much would've been obvious, seeing as how he'd been absolutely addicted to watching her come from the very first time he'd done it.

Even though they'd still been at Hogwarts.

In hindsight, perhaps their venue had made the whole thing a bit more daring, a bit more scandalous, but none of that had mattered, not at the time. Instead, it had been primal. _Raw._ Satisfying _._ They couldn't have been arsed to care how wanton they'd looked while rutting against each other by the lake. Fully clothed, of course.

But all too soon, the world had come crashing down. Their little slice of paradise had been destroyed as if it had never been. Harry'd had to spend most of the next year living in a tent, subsisting only on little more than luminous memories of the way she'd cried out before she'd collapsed, panting, on his chest.

After the war, though, Ginny had been more than willing to pick up where they'd left off, and  _Harry_  had been overjoyed to learn that the second and third and fourth times had been even more inflaming than the first. When some of the tragedy and sadness had dimmed into the distance, she'd given him an introduction by guiding his fingers beneath her knickers, rubbing in neat circles in near-darkness until finally,  _finally_ she'd let out that same strangled cry while her thighs clenched around his hand. Then, in the most mortifying moment of Harry's life, he'd proceeded to let out a groan, thrust against the damp grass, and shoot off in his own trousers, just from the sight of it.

Because that's what happens when you're 17 and you've scarcely been able to wank in months.

Ginny had found it  _adorable_ , though. At least according to her. He was inclined to believe her assessment, too, especially since it hadn't stopped her from doing it again.  _And again_.

 _ _Yes__. Harry seizes on the unexpected foothold of his own agonizing memories. He can use these, he realizes, to reel himself back from the edge— and slowly but surely, he reins himself in. _Just in time._

But as soon as he does, as soon as he's  _ _back__ , as soon as he's regained some vague semblance of composure, he feels her hand on his cheek. It's tender. Comforting. Reassuring.

"Are you ok?" she whispers, and he replies with a terse nod, because that's when the guilt finally hits him. He's totally forgotten about  _her_ , hasn't he, in his quest to make this less embarrassing for himself?

What a colossal  _arse_  he is.

But now that he's heard how low and sultry her voice is _—_  just like it is while they're snogging _—_  he's already  _right there_  again, and  _dammit dammit dammit_ , he desperately clings to the folding corners of reality as he grips her hip even harder. He hopes this is one of those things she just  _understands,_ because if she starts moving, right now, he's absolutely done for.

Somehow, though, she gets it...it's unbelievable, really, how she  _ _always__  gets it, and every second he's allowed to collect himself feels like an even greater blessing.

After an amount of time somewhere between two minutes and three years—either of which seems equally plausible— Harry blinks open his eyes to peer down at her, and  _fuck._

He swallows.

 _ _This__  was why he hasn't looked until now. As he's figured, she's absolutely  _stunning,_ a veritable goddess in his arms, more beautiful than she's ever looked. The candlelight dances across her flushed face and if he didn't know her as well as he does, he might assume that she's perfectly content.

But Ginny's developed this almost imperceptible crease between her eyes, one that Harry's only seen on a few occasions. Once, he'd seen it when she'd fallen from her broom and landed square on her bum. Another time, when he'd been a little too enthusiastic and shoved her head down on his _—_   _on there—_ and he'd accidentally scraped the back of her throat without warning. In that instance, she'd ( _lightly_ ) used her teeth to convey her point, but Harry had nonetheless understood:  _Ginny makes that face when she's uncomfortable._

As such, it had taken him quite a bit of convincing to believe she'd actually wanted to do this. She'd told him a thousand times that there's not much to be done for it, that this is going to be a bit painful the first time, but seeing the evidence is almost too much for Harry to handle.

So he decides to get the whole thing over with.  _Quickly._

"Is...is it ok if I move now?" he asks, and as soon as he says the word  _ _move__ , he's seized with this almost preternatural need to thrust as hard and as fast as he possibly,  _possibly_  can.

But still, he waits. He holds back. The last thing he wants to do is disrespect her, to make her feel as if she's being used; absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. He's sure she knows that...but he wouldn't hate a bit of proof.

Ginny doesn't answer in words.

Instead, she arches her back and kisses him. Perhaps due to a two-part combination of the angle this movement provides and the knowledge that she's  _uncomfortable_  (he still can't bear to admit she's in pain) _—_  but now he really, truly,  _completely_  can't stop.

So he doesn't.

For once in his life, he  _ _doesn't__.

Harry doesn't carefully weigh his options. He doesn't debate and philosophize about the merits of one choice over another. He simply does what his body tells him...and  _goes_.

He's pulled all the way out before he's realized it, although he immediately regrets this; now he  _ _knows__  how much better it feels inside her than it does anywhere else, and before he can try to stop himself, he plunges in again, and  _fuck_...if he thought she'd felt brilliant the first time, it's nothing compared to how she feels now that he can isolate each sensation. She's so warm and tight and wet, and he thinks— for one intoxicated moment— that it's almost like diving into warm water over and over and over.

Then he buries his face in her neck and he smells flowers and sweat and sex and  _ _Ginny__ , and it's a heady combination, one that's gotten him hard for much longer than he's prepared to admit.

 _It's Ginny. He's surrounded by Ginny._ She's in every fiber of his being, she's underneath his skin, she beats away in his chest with a rhythm as insistent as his own heartbeat. She's letting him  _ _do__  this, something she's never done with another living soul...because that's what you do when you love someone.

_When you love someone._

Because she  _loves_  him.

_She. Loves. Him._

He doesn't even realize he's on the verge of tears until he feels a drop running down the side of his face, but he doesn't care, doesn't bother to wipe it away.

Because honestly, he's never  _been_  so fucking happy.

Almost as if he's watching from a great distance, he hears words start to fall from his own mouth in some sort of reverent mantra, in an abstract, muttered oath; he reckons he's probably telling her how much he loves her and how  _perfect_ she is and how he doesn't think he can bear to be apart from her for as long as he lives.

"I'm yours... _only_  yours."

Her proclamation cuts into his nonsensical babbling, and he hears himself let out a startled choke as the world swims before his eyes. _How in hell_ has it taken this long for him to realize that she's every damn thing he's ever wanted?  _How in_ _hell_ is it possible that someone who's spent most of his life feeling unloved and unlucky is now receiving the most intimate gift anyone has ever gotten?

And even though he  _knows_  this hasn't been the best for her, even though he  _knows_  it can't possibly last much longer, he just  _has_  to look at her, just to confirm that this is ok. One last time.

He opens his eyes and stares down at her _—_  and again, she understands.  _Almost immediately_.

Because that's who she is. Because that's what she does. Because that's what they've become.  _Together._

"It's ok. Let  _go_ , Harry."

She  _compels_  him,  _commands_  him, and his orgasm rips through his body the second his name tumbles from her beautiful lips.  _Harry._ It's a word that's been cursed and hated and damned and abhorred.  _Harry_  is a word that's ripped families apart and broken alliances and destroyed more lives than he'll ever know.

But when  _Ginny_  says it, it's perfect. When  _Ginny_  says it, he's able to forget about everything except how fluid and warm she feels, about how tightly she's gripped around him. He doesn't see death and destruction and evil and madness. All he sees is how beautiful she looks in the dancing candlelight, all he hears is a deafening rush as he spills himself inside of her again and again and again.

 _He_ loves her. He  _ _l_ oves _her.  _He loves her._

This is the most sexual thing he's ever done— that much is impossible to deny. But at the same time, it's not...he  _knows_  it's not. It's not lewd or lascivious or disgusting. It's not comparable to the vile things scribbled in loo stalls and bragged about over pints at the bar. It's more than just interconnected parts and entwined bodies and the rush of release _—_  although all of those things have been wonderful, too.

But this experience was... _recovery._ That's the only way he can describe it:  _recovery _.__

Long after he's stopped pulsing and thrusting and coming, he remains on top of her as his body twitches with occasional, blinding aftershocks...and honestly, if he died right here, right now, he wouldn't complain. He thinks he might be crying in earnest, but he still can't be arsed to care.

Because he's just confirmed something he's scarcely allowed himself to ponder:  _She completes him._

Ginny is the summation of every single thing he's ever accomplished. She's everything he's ever sought. She's his future. She's his home. She's everything he's ever lacked, everything he's pined for, everything he's missed.

And as they exchange reverent affirmations of their feelings, Harry knows _—_  beyond a shadow of a doubt _—_  that he will spend the rest of his life proving it.


End file.
